a confession, of sorts
by thecoloursoftheworld
Summary: so my really lovely amazing friend named her cat what i asked her to and so i wrote this and it's really really sad and i'm sorry it's confusing but i really hope you like it. TW: mentions of alcoholism, suffocation, death, implied suicide. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH bc im a horrible human being i'm really sorry stacey


**A/N: for the absolutely brilliant and lovely Stacey-i hope you like it!**

* * *

It is only now, in the pale moonlit aftermath, that he realises how much he loved the man, with his whiskey-and-cigarette-flavoured kisses and paint-covered hands and rumpled curls and barbed tongue.

_(He chokes back a cry because he never told him, never thought to tell him—)_

It is only now, when the burning has ceased and has been replaced by a dull throb, that he realises how much he needed the man, with his scarlet opinions and scathing comments and condescending smirks that set his soul ablaze.

_(He remembers the first time he realised that it was not hatred that spurred the arguments, but a different emotion entirely—)_

He finds the letter tucked neatly under the pillow, squashed and misshapen where his head used to lie.

_(To the living idealist, from the dead realist—)_

The words are _not_ words, but poetry, woven into intricate swirls that make up a face, _his_ face, shadowy and impressive and terrible.

_(It's like some kind of sick joke but he can't tear his eyes away from the page—)_

"'A confession, of sorts, from me to you,'" he reads aloud, inhaling the scent of cigarettes and aftershave and whiskey.

_(And that was him, in a nutshell, wasn't it, with his incessant smoking though he insisted he'd cut down, and his drinking that never really made him less beautiful in his eyes—)_

"'I hope you like the paintings. They're all for you. They always were.'"

_(He looks in the room, the room with the locked door that never seemed mysterious before today, and finds them, the paintings, all of him—)_

"'I'm sorry. I know that's worthless, and you probably couldn't give a fuck about me if you tried, but for what it _is _worth, I'm sorry. It's true, even if you don't think it is.'"

_(He remembers the looks that were cast his way during meetings at the Musain, sadness and lust and longing laced into the impossibly blue eyes—)_

"'I just really don't want you to hate me for what I've done.'"

_(The butterflies that rose in the pit of his stomach every time their eyes met were never quite as poignant as they were that night, after everyone had left and they were the only people in the café—)_

"'You always were too good for me, weren't you, Apollo? But I hope you know this—I've loved you since the second I first saw you. Forget the shit, the drinking, the smoking (I know I'm sorry I love you), the—the fucking words, forget all of it. It doesn't matter. All that matters is this: you're worth something. I wasn't. Go and do good out in the world, the world I never dared to go.'"

_(He had plucked up the courage after a long silence—"What are you drawing?" He looked shocked for a few seconds before replying, and of course it was his name that came out of those chapped lips, of course the word sent a blush racing up the waxy-looking cheeks, of course those soft hands were tugging at the curls at the nape of his neck a half-hour later while the lips pressed themselves hungrily against his—)_

He can't speak, can't move, can't do _anything_. He feels like he's suffocating, like an invisible noose has tightened around his neck and is tugging, making it impossible to breathe. "'It's not your fault. I—I haven't been _planning_ this, per se, but I knew that eventually I would realise that I'm not good enough for you. I'm so sorry, Enjolras. I love you more than I can say in words. Words cannot begin to describe you, so that's why I'm going to end this here. I know I'm sorry I love you.'"

_(And of course it smells like him, like the ratty purple hoodie he never took off, his security blanket, his only companion through the sleepless nights—)_

He tucks the letter into a small mahogany box and puts it on the nightstand, fingers trembling. He is still wearing his black suit, though the tie is only half-done and his jacket is in a crumpled heap by the door. The programme from the funeral sits under it, the pages in tatters from where his agitated fingers had torn at them during the ceremony. A few scraps of it are still intact, though, the largest piece being a photo of Grantaire taken during one of the many parties hosted by Courfeyrac. It's a candid, and his eyes are bright with laughter and drink, his mouth curved in a genuine smile, a stray curl falling into his face.

_(That was the night he told him he loved him—)_

He grabs the hoodie off of the pile of dirty laundry and brings it to his nose, inhaling, not caring that he's crying, not caring that he's _gone_, it's _done_. He falls to the floor and tugs his knees to his chest, letting each sob rip from his body with a terrible, unearthly sound. "I'm sorry," he whimpers into the soft fabric of the hoodie. "I'm _sorry_." He repeats the words until they lose all meaning and are simply _there, _fragmented and broken as his cracked lips _speakbleedrepeat_.

_(Love, R.)_


End file.
